


Californication

by RachelCAstrid



Series: Writer!Kate [4]
Category: Castle
Genre: Banter, Boxers, Characters Writing Fanfic, Dinner, Dream Sex, Early Work, Episode Related, Eye Sex, F/M, Fantasizing, Little Black Dress, Oral Sex, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Romantic Friendship, Season/Series 03, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelCAstrid/pseuds/RachelCAstrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beckett and Castle have "something real," according to Royce's letter. Is he right? Further proof that Caskett's unfolding love story is an extraordinary one. Set in 3x22, the hotel and beyond. </p><p>Part of my Writer!Kate series. Sequel to "This Nikki Heat Thing," "Packing Heat," and "On the Back Burner" but stands alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Real

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by purplangel and cougshupe's reviews for "Packing Heat." (Thank you!) I do recommend reading PH first, but you wouldn't be lost to start here.

It was an occasion of soul-searching, this trip to Los Angeles.

If Castle had known, really known, he might have pointed out the layers of irony there: not least of all that the capital of embodied fiction—with its cameras and fake sets and editing tricks—would be the place where Kate found herself. The place where she learned what was real.

Maybe that was what made it appropriate. Los Angeles was more complex than its reputation in the media and on the screen, and Kate Beckett was more than a muse, more than a cop, more than a woman out for justice.

But before she could sort out the reality of herself, she had to face certain aspects of her circumstances.

She began to come to terms with Mike Royce's death—really let it sink in, taking some control back for herself in making the situation real by voicing it aloud to Castle. She told him she couldn't believe she'd never see Royce again. Her words were quiet, but the meaning washed over her with the force of a wave.

She also came to terms with the fact that Castle was not going to play grief counselor, for which she was grateful. In that moment on the sofa in their hotel suite, she just needed his ears.

Nonetheless, Richard Castle had never been very good at just being ears. He was a decent listener (when his selective hearing wasn't switched on), but foremost, he was a writer, a wordsmith; one who probably liked to hear himself talk at least as much as he liked to weave stories.

And tonight, he talked. He told _their_ story—the parts she hadn't heard.

He leaned against the back of the sofa and met Beckett's eyes; revealed to her his first impression of her and, ultimately, how little that impression had changed over the years. All the time they spent together, he explained, did nothing to lessen his awe of her strength, her heart, her _hotness._

Leave it to Castle to wield compliments for levity.

But he didn't realize until a full second later—when she was smiling and telling him, "You're not so bad yourself, Castle," saying it with her lips and her eyes and something he sensed pulsing deep within—that his attempt to lighten the mood had somehow made the air between them heavier.

At her words, Castle's own eyes shone and his lips parted ever so slightly. He was rendered speechless, yet very much prepared to express his response without words if necessary.

Of course, he didn't know the exact state of her most recent relationship, and images of rekindling a little passion with the betrothed Kyra Blaine on a rooftop flickered through his mind. Even the life-or-death undercover kiss with Beckett still haunted his scruples, if only because there was so very little about it that was "undercover." He had been single at the time, but she hadn't.

He couldn't do it again—drag a woman he cared about to the edge of questionable circumstance. If she had meant her words tonight as a sign that she was finally in a position to make a move, he would let _her_ make it; he would let her lead.

And she didn't.

There was no "neat" way out of the moment, she realized. And it would have been such a lovely moment, the kind that she probably would have wrestled with whether or not to tell Lanie about someday, if the timing had not been so utterly not-right.

If she had foreseen this moment, days ago, she would have done everything in her power to make the timing right tonight.

Instead, it had snuck up on her in the midst of her grief and vengeance over Royce's murder; in the midst of a long-term relationship with a good man she genuinely wanted to love, both in his presence and in his absence; in the midst of confused feelings that she still hadn't finished sorting out, still hadn't entirely unpacked.

Those feelings had only gotten more complicated when she'd first realized that she was working them out in her own writing and on her own flesh, and when Castle had gone away for the summer to write _Naked Heat,_ and when she'd hummed into his delicious mouth just before she spun a kick to knock down Lockwood's guard, and then in that freezer when she'd said it—almost said it—just barely remembered saying it—had she said it?—just before she passed out in Castle's arms.

That day, after their rescue, she knew that she and Josh had gotten a second chance, but some part of her also knew that she and Castle had been given one, too.

That's what scared her. Not just the thought that she and Castle had a chance; not even the thought of taking it someday. But the idea that she could hold one man's heart in her hands while suspecting that another man held hers (and _when_ had she ever relinquished it to him, and _why_ couldn't she pinpoint the time?)—that was terrifying to her.

It tangled her up in a mess that told her that no matter which of these two men she was with at any given time, she was potentially cheating on the other. And that, by all traditional logic, made no sense to her.

For all intents and purposes, she was _with_ Josh. Except when she wasn't. But she believed that honor and integrity transcended those sorts of physical and emotional distances, so even when she wasn't with him, she really was. Or else she would have done something by now to change that, and she hadn't.

Yet, if memory served, she had all but admitted that she loved Castle, and the fact that she'd thought it might be her dying breath did nothing to diminish the significance. She could keep telling herself that she had been delirious from the cold, or she could suck it up and face the fact that it wasn't the first time she'd imagined saying it to him.

But she hadn't felt exactly that way about him in the ages B.G.— _Before Gina_ —and the once again ex-couple had only just broken up four months ago (not that she had counted). And Kate had been with Josh all along.

That meant she couldn't quite claim that Castle came first, that she was somehow cheating on him with Josh—at least not without admitting that Josh was a placeholder, a relationship borne out of loneliness and spite, a convenient inconvenience.

And she wasn't always convinced that's what he was. It might have been easier, otherwise, but real life was seldom so black-and-white.

Sometimes, people—even busy people, even _too_ -busy people—just didn't deserve to be hurt.

Now, in the shared suite, having essentially hit on the man who was not her boyfriend, she felt the weight of the moment; no longer lovely, but suddenly the kind of telltale moment that defines a person's character.

Uneasily, she glanced off to the side to gather her courage. "I should go. It's late." She said it as much to herself as to him. As though reaching for a note of finality, she added, "G'night," and then stood and navigated beyond the cozy sitting area, trying not to reveal her exit to be the escape she knew it was.

He was handsome and pensive as he worked up the nerve to say her first name, but the sight of him was almost lost on Kate, anxious as she was, and Castle's thoughts just then were only of her.

He had to tell her something, anything, to break the Awkward and let her know that—that—what? He didn't actually know, and she didn't give him the chance to figure it out.

Somehow she looked him in the eye as she said it: "G'night, Castle," and shut the bedroom door behind her.

There she went again, answering his intimate _Kates_ with professional-distanced Castles; always wishing him a _good night_ instead of offering the more hopeful _until tomorrow._

It occurred to him, as he sat there looking at her closed door, that this was the first time her preference for a farewell actually seemed more potent than his. "Until tomorrow" was hopeful, but inherently delayed in its promise. "Good night" seemed final, but twisted just right, it could also be gloriously descriptive.

He allowed himself the indulgence of wondering if they might have a good night after all.

His imagination took flight. What if Dr. Motorcycle Boy _was_ out of the picture? What if the idea that this was really happening now—naturally, organically, just because they were being themselves—simply startled Kate, and she would soon come to her senses and open the door? He waited.

He waited until he was convinced that "G'night" was just one more farewell from the realist, Detective Beckett, and that the reality was that the Kate he'd called was either unwilling or unavailable to answer.

It was going to be a long night of writing.

But first: a shower.


	2. Reserved

Earlier that evening, after a day's worth of unofficial investigation, Castle and Beckett returned to the hotel to freshen up for dinner at Spago.

Castle hadn't mentioned the place at all until he'd told Montgomery that they had a dinner reservation (and couldn't they wait until morning to return to New York?), so Beckett was confused when he finally told her that the reservation was real. "I thought you only said that to try to buy us more time to investigate," she said, as they crossed the threshold of their suite.

He looked at her sort of funny. "Well, yeah, that's why I told the Captain about it, but it's not like it was a _lie."_

 _No,_ she thought darkly; _I'm the one who lied to Roy._

But Castle didn't give her much time to wallow in self-loathing. He began regaling her with details about Spago to whet her appetite.

He described everything—the architecture, the décor, the flavors, the aromas—in a way befitting a novelist and pleased foodie. He tossed around words like "iconic," "sophisticated," "Agnolotti," and "Kaiserschmarrn." He sang the seafood's praises and pushed the pastries.

After trying to sell her on a few of the Asian-inspired dishes, he explained that the internationally acclaimed restaurant had an equally impressive history of patrons, from the Emmys Awards to the United States President—"not to mention one Richard Castle. . . ."

"Now you're just showing off," said Beckett. She'd suspected it of him long before the more obvious self-aggrandizement.

His eyes sparkled. "Impressed with my bottomless well of wisdom, are you?"

Her brain malfunctioned briefly after "bottom," but she bit her tongue until the blip passed, and then she threw the tease back at him: "Try unnerved at the magnitude of your ego." They both knew that she was still smiling when she said it, so there was no use pretending that she wasn't interested in going. Still, she tried to sound nonchalant: "So what are you wearing?"

He went to speak, but the suggestiveness of his raised brows and gaping mouth cued her to cut him off.

"To the _restaurant,_ Castle," she intoned, dragging his guttered thoughts up out of the sludge. "What's the dress code?"

He told her it was in the realm of business casual and made his way to his room before she could collect visual evidence that his mind had slunk right back into the gutter.

He had to get a hold of himself. As subtext went, this conversation was pretty tame. What was wrong with him today?

When he'd made the reservation for a table for two—that's right, before Kate Beckett even sat down beside him in first-class seat 3C, because _that's_ how confident studs like Rick Castle _roll_ —he'd hoped she'd come away with the message that he intended every time he fed her.

Ever since the morning that he prepared pancakes and coffee for her, that morning that serial psycho Scott Dunn dropped a body at her doorstep, he used warm food to tell her: "I want to take care of you."

This time, he also thought that surely this dinner would outdo that amateur Alex Conrad's shameless muffin basket. That thing had sat atop the edge of Beckett's desk like an oversized, edible paperweight as Esposito and the other cops lightened its load little by little.

And he wondered if it might even outdo Dr. Motorcycle Boy's—well, whatever his signs of affection were. Castle hated to linger too long on the concept, especially since he didn't have a recent scoop on Josh and Kate's status. People whose personal lives didn't appear on Page Six were harder to read.

But when it came down to it, this fine dining excursion was, in a nutshell, akin to a pissing contest with any virile man remotely in Kate's life, not least of all the cardiologist with the motorbike and the thick, dark hair and the heart of freaking gold.

It was one thing to admit to being petty and jealous over another writer trying to nab his muse, and Beckett was gracious enough to declare herself a "one-writer girl." But it was something else to admit outright to being petty and jealous over her long-term boyfriend.

So lately Castle couldn't bring himself to ask her about Josh.

He'd practically chased off Alex without much regard for her feelings about meeting with the new novelist. For all his past prying, he could never seem to do that to her over Josh.

His intentions were pure, as he'd told her that morning. But pure what? Pure desire just to be in her presence; that is, pure suppression of one desire and surrender to another.

Castle washed up at the sink, sizing up his own reflection in the mirror as though to throw down the gauntlet, goading himself to do something bold.

The kind of bold he hadn't always been when it counted. But if ever it counted, it counted with Kate, and he couldn't do this wrong.

So he forced himself not to wear the full suit, dress shirt, and tie as planned. Instead, he simply donned a nice jacket over his plaid, purplish-grey button-down. He checked himself out one last time, took a breath, and headed out into the common area of the suite.

She emerged from her room soon after him, having just retouched her makeup and left her hair down—and she'd changed into what could only be called a little black dress.

Very little. Very black.

Classy and smooth, it covered her shoulders and upper arms, but the sweetheart neckline teased at her cleavage. The fitted bodice and mid-thigh skirt left just a few curves to the imagination.

Castle swallowed. Couldn't even manage a compliment. "I didn't know you packed a dress."

She was arranging things in her clutch, furtively avoiding eye contact. He was pretty damn dressed down for Richard Castle on a night out. She'd thought "business casual" in Castle-speak meant something a little nicer than the standard meaning. Now she felt over-dressed and foolish.

"I wasn't sure what turns my case would take," she explained. "Packed the variety." She decided that now would not be the time to mention the flashy swimsuit.

"Your luggage looked so small," he murmured. One bag, right? She'd had one bag? Or had he been distracted then, too?

As she glanced down at the dress, it was obvious by her own reaction that she didn't think before she said: "This didn't take up much space."

Castle showed formidable restraint as they headed out the door.

In the car, it was everything he could do not to reach over and squeeze her bare knee. He'd forgotten how much he loved the heat of a Los Angeles May.

Beckett felt somewhat more confident by the time they walked into the restaurant. She told herself that she had chosen her ensemble for Spago and not for Rick, and that helped.

Just a bit early for their reservation, they waited in the bar, where Wolfgang Puck himself emerged specifically to greet Rick. The reunion was brief, but he shook both their hands and made only one awkward comment about Rick's last travel companion before he welcomed them warmly and went to seek out other guests.

She had to admit that the place was impressive: jeweled detailing, original artwork, and a wide glass wall with a view of the kitchen made the dining room elegant and intriguing, a feast for observant eyes like theirs.

A clean-shaven waiter about her age led them to a cozy table for two on the Tuscan-inspired garden patio—one atmospheric setting which Castle had cleverly neglected to divulge to her. The sheer beauty of it swept her up in a swirl of quiet surprise.

Despite having more trouble than usual reading her this evening, Castle didn't miss her little gasp as she stepped out to the patio, and he beamed brighter than the lights twinkling in the trees.

But then she felt a knot in her throat; her equilibrium off-kilter.

Maybe she couldn't let him get too complacent; maybe she was just taken aback at how extravagant and oddly intimate this particular non-date was turning out to be (despite Castle's uncharacteristic dress-down); or maybe she was simply caught in a funk of grief now that she wasn't actively investigating Royce's murder.

Without really understanding why, she clammed up at the table—sort of reserved, reticent and cool—answering anything he said with the minimal words necessary and sometimes little but a nod.

"Mamma mia," Castle breathed, his eyes trailing the pages of his menu. Lord knows he was trying. "They've done it again. Just look at this selection."

She gave it a beat. "So," she said without looking up, "what did the Parisian supermodel think of this place?"

She wondered if he was neglecting to answer her out of retaliation, but the possibility didn't soften her.

In truth, he didn't answer because her question was uncomfortably bitter, not just steeped in jealousy—they'd been down that conversational path before—but laced with something more that he couldn't identify and wanted very much to fix.

"Castle," she said. She looked up to find her companion still lurking behind his menu. _"Castle."_

Suddenly, he peeked over the shield of fine dining and replied in his best Robby the Robot voice: "Quiet, please. I am analyzing."

That did it. She laughed, and although she still couldn't work out the knot in her throat, the laugh freed something from within her. She rolled her eyes and smiled. "I'm so glad you enjoyed _Forbidden Planet."_

His was a full grin. "I'm so glad we got candy _and_ popcorn."

The _I'm-so-glads_ had to stop there, because continuing along that theme (any of a number of themes, really; gladness, togetherness, gladness _because_ of togetherness) might have proven dangerous. Still, neither one hurried to change the topic.

He caught her gaze and held it for a long moment, as though both were unwilling to be the one to sever the connection. Anyone else would have called it makeup eye-sex.

He was first—not to look away, but to break the silence. "I don't know about you, but I like to look at the dessert menu first so I know how much room to save. So far I'm ogling the cherry-filled chocolate bonbons."

Instead of getting an indignant rise out of her at his choice of words, he was rewarded with a little nod and the twitches of a different smile—not the one that appreciated his sense of humor, but the one that appreciated him. He was learning the difference.

Then, as she flipped to the end of her menu, her mouth silently took on that delicious "ooh" expression, and he swore he could kiss her again until the world came to an end.


	3. Reckless

He liked that face. He really liked that face.

His thoughts were only interrupted when Kate said, "Castle, let's do something crazy," and he was fairly sure he did a double-take.

"Crazier than going rogue and breaking into a woman's house?" he asked.

"And slightly more legal," she said, setting down her menu. The disarray of her tangled feelings tonight was too much for her, and her gut told her that something just a little bit impulsive would help. For a moment, Castle swore her eyes shone with mischief. "Let's get dessert. First."

He tried to decide if this message was somehow encoded or if she really did just want to kick off her meal with bonbons. He figured it was the latter, and who was he to disagree?

"Spontaneous _and_ counter-cultural," he said, arching a brow. "I like it."

They convinced their waiter to bring out the cherry-chocolate bonbons, which were incredibly rich, almost overpowering. Paired with a fine Cabernet Sauvignon, they were both decadent and heady.

Wolfgang Puck found out that the author and his guest had ordered off the dessert menu and couldn't contain himself. He sent a tray of miniature pastries to their table, and they shamelessly obliged while they waited for their "second course" to arrive.

The restaurant was busy tonight, so they had plenty of time to talk in the interim.

Soon the conversation turned to Castle's current unfinished manuscript. "Maybe," he said, cutting a pastry to share with her, despite that it was so very miniature and they still had a few more left, "I'll write a nice restaurant scene for Nikki Heat."

Inevitably, Beckett thought of her own private writings in her latest notebook—the fourth notebook _(fourth!)_ to hold her non-canonical Nikki Heat fictions. And as far as she was concerned, Castle never needed to know that any of them ever existed.

The first notebook was destroyed when her apartment exploded, while the second survived in the shelter of the nightstand and followed her to her new place.

She filled the third book by New Year's, but the fourth was special. It was considerably thicker than her other journals, and still had quite a bit of life left in it, too.

It was a year and a half ago now (just after she'd gotten her copy of _Heat Wave_ ) that the prose first took her hand by surprise, commandeering the journal where she usually jotted down poetry and lyrics. She continued with all three forms of writing since then, but frankly, she'd never written so much prose before in her life.

At least by now she understood why.

It was the same reason that she no longer threatened Castle for referring to her as his muse.

The fruits of his musing had become _her_ muse; Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook inspired her. And maybe, sometimes, Castle did, too.

Like that kiss. . . . She'd never forget it. Even if she did, she'd find it again at the beginning of Notebook Number Four. And again in the middle, because the first draft hadn't done it justice.

Though neither did the second.

Maybe she needed to do further research.

She chased the thought away, but what replaced it was no less difficult to wrap her head around. She'd always written, however indirectly, about various people in her life. But ever since Royce had shown up in the fall, she'd written more often about him—or rather, about Nikki's training officer.

Sometimes Beckett's fiction was closer to fact than Castle's was. Sometimes it was even more fantastic.

Nikki's training officer indeed knew her heart better than he knew her bed, not entirely unlike Royce. But, like the one searing kiss with Castle that she would never forget, there was that one time with Royce that hands had wandered where a superior officer's hands were not supposed to wander, and . . . And the physicality was mutual, even though the feelings weren't.

She really had been in love with him. Once. But here he was, still in her head. Her memory of his textured hands on her body faded to the thought of him penning his last letter to her—the gentle strength of his words.

_Risking our hearts is why we're alive._

She swallowed a ball of grief and managed to speak: "Castle."

He met her eye, trying to sort her out because he had a feeling she wasn't going to comment on the pastries, but he couldn't distinguish whether this was a glimpse into Sultry Kate gearing up to say something sweet or Uncomfortable Kate ready to run.

Either way, she looked genuinely concerned for his opinion when she asked: "Would you be terribly disappointed if we left?"

The request itself did nothing to clear up which sort of mindset she was in, but he whipped out his bedroom voice, because it would either urge her on if she was suggesting what he hoped she was suggesting or it would at least make her smile or smack him or do _something_ interactive if she wasn't.

"Why, Detective Beckett, you're in quite the hurry." He leaned in. "Is that why you suggested skipping to dessert?"

But by the time the words left his lips, he sensed the tinge of exhaustion and sorrow in her eyes, and he cleared his throat as though to atone for his flippancy. He didn't know if he was allowed to ask for her reason; he also didn't think it much mattered.

He would go to the ends of the earth for her. Leaving a restaurant seemed like a comparably small mission.

"No," he answered seriously, offering her soft eyes. He noticed their waiter slipping through the doors from the garden patio back into the restaurant. "Excuse me for a moment and then we'll go."

He was able to catch the waiter, who by now knew well Castle's connection to Wolfgang Puck, and requested the entrées to be packed up for them. Then he called back to the hotel and made a few more arrangements.

They were quiet during the ride back. Beckett held the trays of food in a bag on her lap, the warmth soothing against her skin beneath the slinky dress and a little hot against the bare flesh above her knees.

He wanted to grant her privacy, but by the time they reached the suite, his desire to understand her and see if the hurt was one that he could help to heal won out.

Still, he erred on the side of less emotionally-charged. "Was it the bonbons?" he asked, and, realizing that it was an awkward question by itself, added: "Were you feeling sick because we had all that dessert before dinner?"

Personal subject nonetheless, but he felt that they were at the point in their friendship where they could talk about their stomachs, if not their hearts.

"A little," she admitted, but they exchanged a look that said that they both knew there was more to her need to return to the quiet of the hotel.

Just as Castle shrugged out of his good jacket, one of Maurice's fellow miracle-workers from the staff arrived with the requested plates, utensils—even chopsticks, those over-achievers—and a fine white wine in a slender silver bucket.

Castle tipped the man, set out the plates and food, and uncorked the wine while Beckett went to her room to slip out of her dress and her strappy shoes. When she returned, she was comfortably barefoot and clad in a loose-fitting, dark purple shirt and soft leggings.

The fact that she felt even _more_ at ease with Castle when she was in her pajamas than in her public evening wear or her work clothes was not one that she was able to process yet. It was counterintuitive and unsettling, so she shelved it.

She joined him on the sofa, and they ate and sipped and spoke late into the night, mostly about their rogue mission and what they had uncovered thus far.

That's when their conversation turned not just to case-Royce, but to personal-Royce, and Beckett's thoughts about him—she was finally able to say _something_ out loud, even if it wasn't the whole story.

And then came Castle's thoughts about Beckett. That's when the discussion culminated in one woman's escape and one man's longing to settle her spirit again.

But nothing would settle her as long as Leslie Nielsen's 1950s voice disrupted her every effort to distract herself: "Your mind refuses to face the conclusion."

 _No,_ she fought back, leaning against her door on the other side and covering her face with her hands. _That isn't true._

And then Detective Kate Beckett trapped herself in a Catch-22 as though she were her own suspect.

She ran her hands through her hair, wondering if he might follow her; check on her; give her an excuse to look into his eyes again.

When he didn't, she considered the door handle, reached for it and just barely pulled back in hesitation. Surely there was something more she could say. He deserved more than a shut door and a strained good-night. So much more.

With that, she grabbed the handle and pushed. A moment too late. She could see the hint of his silhouette through the closing double doors.

Stepping back into her room, she leaned back again, closed her eyes, and swallowed.

Was any of this even real? She felt like Morbius, facing something of herself that disturbed her.

"Guilty! Guilty!" the _Forbidden Planet_ doctor had yelled, and it echoed through her mind. "My evil self is at that door, and I have no power to stop it."

But she had. Sort of. She had slipped away just quickly enough, delayed just long enough that she hadn't done something she might regret. Yet in the end, it was Rick who saved them both, returning to his own room.

The film they'd seen together a few weeks ago was apparently heavy on her mind ever since Castle's robot impression at dinner. This time she heard, "We're all part monsters in our subconscious. . . ."

Nights like this made her think that Richard Castle was the exception to that generalization. Any idea she had about his wayward adulthood was melting into her growing respect for _his_ strength; _his_ heart.

She could probably think about him forever, but she knew this wasn't just about him. It was about her, too; how scared she was to see herself toe the line. She never thought herself infallible, but she had believed she followed a strong moral compass.

Of course, the first domino to force her inner reflections had fallen in New York. She'd lied to Montgomery.

The Captain had given her a stern look; a knowing one. "Kate, I hope you're not thinking about doing something reckless."

She could feel the tension in her cheeks and jaw, but she'd managed not to move except to speak the words: "No, sir."

She'd _wanted_ to say, "Define reckless."

But she knew that whatever he said and whatever she said, she was going to do what she intended to do. Montgomery always told her that her tenacity was what made him see the Homicide Detective in her in the first place. She was nothing if not tenacious. In this case, recklessness was just a byproduct.

But then her recklessness hadn't ended with her lie. Of course she'd flown to LA, and within hours of landing she had broken into Violet's home and then yet again disobeyed the Captain's orders to leave the west coast.

"Would Montgomery really fire you?" Castle had asked, after they'd been busted.

"Yeah."

"So we're going back to New York?"

She'd scoffed. Kate Beckett the Scofflaw was officially back. "Hell no."

And now this—whatever _this_ was. This excruciating moment in which she was nearly cheating on one man by toying with another. Who was this woman?

Castle had teased her when she'd initially refused to share a hotel suite with him. From the driver's seat of the hot red rental car, he'd asked, "Worried you can't control yourself while we're alone?"

She'd thrown it back at him. "It's not me I'm worried about."

Tonight proved her wrong.

She was the one she was worried about. Castle was keeping it together. How the hell did he do that? There was one time that she thought of him as one who might jump anything that moved.

So was the fact that he didn't make a move on her a sign that there was something inferior about her, or did he just have more self-restraint and respect for her than she gave him credit for?

And now she was thinking in circles. Circles that always led her back to Rick.

She opened the door again, this time crossed the threshold. As before, Castle wasn't there. Her eyes swept to his bedroom door, but she didn't pass the sitting area for fear that she wouldn't convince herself not to knock—or break in.

She spotted the food on the table and found that she had enough of an appetite to eat a bit more, so she reclaimed her spot on the sofa.

That's when it caught her eye—a small, leather-bound notepad. She didn't know when he'd left it there, but it had to be Castle's.

She justified her nosiness now just like she'd mentally justified breaking into Violet Young's house. In this case, it was Castle's notes, which meant that it was probably a running list of _her_ business; all the things that he had collected from prying into her career and her life.

She took the clean end of the chopstick and slid it along the bottom edge of the pages until they parted for it. After glancing at Castle's closed bedroom door, in one fluid motion, she slipped the chopstick forward and used the leverage to force the book open.

Easier than picking a lock.


	4. Restless

Despite his class and charm and his tendency to check himself out in reflective surfaces, Richard Castle was not usually one to preen for extended periods of time.

But he did know a thing or two about unwinding and enjoying the finer things in life, and he knew when it was time to appreciate a good, long shower in a tricked out hotel bathroom.

He loved this place if just for the fancy steam shower and all its bells and whistles—well, not so much bells and whistles as built-in radio and detachable massaging showerhead with multiple settings (the Parisian supermodel's personal favorite feature, as Castle remembered it).

Other perks included generous samples of exclusive soaps and lotions that would make even the Hulk feel as delicate as a lotus blossom.

Castle was not above indulging in all of these things.

He slipped into the shower, deciding to start only with steam. He let it fill the space and breathed deeply.

Just the warmth of the air and his inhalation was enough to send him back to that night that he and Beckett rescued Ryan and Esposito with a steamy undercover kiss. It had been a chilly January evening, and they'd shivered as they stepped out of the car and stumbled into one another's arms, but once he spun her around and pressed against her, the heat they generated was palpable.

And if he was totally honest with himself, "kiss" didn't exactly cover it. It was more of a—a sort of lip-melting. That's what they did; they melted together at the lips, in the midst of all that season-defying heat.

And that little hum of hers? He'd never forget that sound. He could still taste it. He could actually _taste_ her sound. That's how much she had turned his senses inside out and upside down, like a delicious form of synesthesia. And he was still so hungry.

Eventually he needed to turn the water on and let it run cold.

Meanwhile, in her own restlessness, Beckett eyed the notebook that she held captive at the table. The binding was one that did not stay open on its own, so she had to pin one side down with the chopstick as she peeked inside.

She chewed her cheek as she read the notes, haphazardly strewn about the page, not so unlike her own pages reserved for initial concepts.

Funny—she'd never really thought about Castle having scattered notes like this. Even the giant storyboard she'd seen in his office was impeccably logical, mapped out with every bit of precision and care that the detectives took with their murder boards.

And even though he began every case with just as little information as she did, his theory-building and deductive reasoning were impressive enough that she not only forgave any initial outlandish theories but often forgot entirely that there had been a point when he had been baffled. Castle just always seemed to have it together: confident, calm, and insatiably determined to crack the case.

His words came to mind again, as though they had ever left: "I thought . . . you were a mystery I was never going to solve."

Insatiably determined.

He'd pieced so much of her together the first week they met that she had trouble imagining Castle seeing such mystery in her then.

But here she was, torn up—not only over Royce's violent death as Montgomery had suggested, but now over all that composed the fabric of her being, from her sense of identity and self-worth to her judgment and character. She was something of a mystery to herself, so it was sort of comforting to know that Castle didn't have her totally figured out, either.

She still held the book open with her chopstick, pinning the left side to the table, so instead of moving it, she took up the second chopstick and used its clean end to open the book some pages further ahead. Again she held it in place with one stick and dropped the spare.

In her experience, guilty people prepared alibis. Truly guilty people avoided leaving fingerprints.

And Kate wouldn't have wanted to be caught dead or alive having found what she did.

Apparently Richard Castle was not confined to writing at his computer after all. In the midst of his note-taking and brainstorming were full sentences, full scenes. Whether or not they would be included in published novels was a significant question which Beckett was actually too distracted to consider at the moment.

_After refreshing her lipstick, Nikki reached up to her bun, removed the elastic and threw her head back to sex up her hair._

_Jameson looked her up and down, reluctant to risk interrupting her but too enthralled to hold his tongue. "What are you doing?"_

_"Playing the part," she said, mastering the paradox of being both brazen and coy._

_He nodded in approval. "Maybe you should pop one more button, just in case."_

_Nikki locked eyes with him and obliged, revealing a hint of lingerie that he was not sorry to notice that he recognized. Brazen it is, then._

_He was on the cusp of asking about the odds of their taking a break before going to question this guy, but she saw his expression and intervened, this time straddling the line between professional and sensual._

_"We can have our fun after we put this to rest." Her eyes trailed down, lingered for just a moment, and met his again. "That is, if you think you'll be up to it. I know yesterday was a hard day for you." As she turned to go, she threw a smile over her shoulder and held his gaze until he fell in step behind her._

_"I've recovered," he assured her._

Oh, this was all a little exciting.

 _Now that's the Castle I know and—admire,_ Beckett thought hastily, though it was still too much to admit, so she tried again: _Appreciate the work of. . . . That's the one. Appreciate. His work._

Yes, she was appreciating his work very, very much—if physical discomfort could indicate appreciation, which, frankly, it did. She felt her chest tighten and her head fog with warmth.

By the time she slipped the second chopstick into the book to turn ahead and read the fulfillment of Nikki's teasing and Rook's promise, her insides clenched and tingled as though she were Nikki Heat herself. She was too preoccupied to remind herself that she wasn't.

The case had since led Rook and Heat into a black-tie situation that culminated in a private moment with Rook peeling the fancy dress from her flesh and letting it fall at their feet. No doubt that this time it would be a long recovery period for Nikki.

At this point, turning the page again, Kate was also too preoccupied to notice that she used the wrong end of the chopstick. It was actually a wonder that she didn't just grab the book up in her hands, that somehow she managed to look demure as she explored his work like it was a meal.

What she found this time didn't just warm her head and her belly, but also her heart.

_"This is my favorite outfit on you," said Jameson, looking up from the bed to the woman at the threshold. His face was half-buried in the pillow he clutched beneath his chin, but he bent at the elbow and rested his head on his hand just to get a better look at her._

_Nikki arched a brow at him, taking inventory of her oversized pajama shirt and leggings. She'd foregone the bottoms until this excursion into the kitchen to retrieve food for them, but now she was more modestly dressed than she had been in the hours since the gala._

_"Because you've taken it off of me so many times?" she teased._

_"Because you look so comfortable. Content."_

_She joined him on the bed and offered him a bowl of purple grapes. "The word you're looking for is 'sated,' Mr. Reporter."_

_He watched her take a grape for herself, let his gaze follow the fruit to her lips, and then met her eyes, reading her. Did she really think it was just about sex? "I said what I meant."_

It struck Beckett that that was part of what had disturbed her about the difference in their outfits when they went out tonight. It wasn't just the concern that Castle was underwhelmed to take her out to dinner, and it wasn't just the realization that she might have kicked things up a notch for a reason.

It was also the startlingly bold realization that Richard Castle of Page Six fame would have appreciated her whether she was wearing a little black dress, her casual clothes, or her plainest loungewear; that even though he would welcome the chance to be stunned silly, he also never expected her to be anything or anyone but Kate Beckett.

_He was telling the truth before, wasn't he? "Your strength, your heart . . ."_

She only hoped that he could still have such respect for her when he found out that her strength and her heart were not as impeccable as he seemed to believe they were.

Suddenly, she saw the small dab of moisture on the notebook and realized her blunder about using the wrong end of the chopstick.

Was it oil? Was it saliva? Saliva had DNA, but oil would leave a noticeable discoloration on the page, so that was the one that she was most afraid it was.

There was no time to do anything about it, though. She heard a door unlatch and jumped at the sound, leaping to her feet. The notepad fell closed on the table, the chopsticks landing unobtrusively at the side.

She was prepared with a solid alibi, but she didn't make it halfway through her sentence about still being hungry and coming back to eat when she looked up to a sight that could silence a crowd—or set one off.

There Castle stood, wearing only a pair of black silk boxers and an expression of equal surprise.

No shirt.

No shoes.

No _pants._

Needless to say, she was nothing short of stunned as she swallowed a lump of air and exhaled a flabbergasted, "Oh _jeez,_ Castle!"


	5. Rugged

"I just got out of the shower," he explained somewhat superfluously. He felt a few little droplets of water slipping from his tousled hair and down his body, but she probably wasn't close enough for those to clue her in, right?

Despite how fast she'd fled from him when he was fully dressed, looking her in the eye as they sat together on the sofa, she was standing rather still right now, and— _hey, Beckett. . . . My eyes are up here!_

In this exposed state, he felt something between flattery and discomfiture; her reaction was more satisfying than he might have expected, but she wasn't exactly acting like she would if this were one of his dreams. The staring was cute, but distanced.

That said, his body had not yet fully recovered from his exploits in the shower, and with Beckett here, he wasn't sure how long that would remain the case.

She caught herself—fast enough, she believed, that Castle hadn't. When her gaze flicked up to meet his baby blues, he attempted to strike up a conversation with a tone that better suited an ordinary afternoon in the bullpen. "So . . . have you tried the moisturizer here?"

The level of sheer casualness he exuded even in his current state of undress really threw her—not that she thought Castle had cause to feel vulnerable in his black silky boxers. Broad shoulders, firm legs, and the suggestion of rugged terrain in between lent themselves well to the image of invulnerability. He had all the confidence of Captain Mal standing naked in the desert.

It was Beckett who was breaking a sweat.

Her lips reacted faster than her voice did. She shot a few blanks before the words finally tumbled out: "Ah—no. I can't say that I have."

But Castle didn't miss a beat. "There's this guy called Ma Xiangang who's got such dry skin that he can touch two hundred volts of electricity with his _bare hands,_ like some kind of real-life Electro. I bet you a hundred bucks this stuff's so good it could incapacitate him."

Sometime during his solo theory-building—sometime after the words "skin" and "bare"—she squeezed her eyes shut, as though the reality of the sight of him finally dawned on her. "Castle."

He snuck a private glance down, but no more of him was showing than a moment ago. "What?"

"I'm going to incapacitate _you_ if you don't put some clothes on."

She'd meant it like a threat, like gripping his nose or holding him by the ear back in the day, but it sounded enough like a proposition that her own eyes shot open and her face flushed with warmth. She prayed to the floor gods to swallow her whole.

His obligatory quip—something along the lines of: _You promise?_ —never came. For once, Castle had the good sense not to play with fire.

But the lack of a quip left at least one beat of excruciating silence filled with locked eyes and the bob of an Adam's apple.

She felt a dull ache low in her belly; she felt the warmth radiate from her head to her core. She wondered whether the effect he had on her would be that much more obvious to both of them if she were to run.

The last time they shared an electrifying moment in this room, escaping had only made her confront her thoughts and feelings head-on. Standing her ground now was, oddly, a way to convince herself that she had more control—and a way to avoid dealing with those thoughts and feelings, because all she needed to deal with for now was _don't touch him,_ and so far that seemed feasible.

Meanwhile, the threat of incapacitation issued in her voice was enough to revive him, and he felt the blood rush south. (Black hides bulges better, right? Isn't that what all the fashion-conscious females in his life had taught him?)

If she noticed, she didn't show it. She still seemed shocked at her own multifaceted threat. "I meant—"

"It's OK," he said. "I know what you meant." But he didn't move, didn't heed her advice to put on another layer or two or make any excuse to leave.

Somehow his apparent attempt at mercy was steeped in its own subtext—just how much did he _know what she meant,_ exactly? That he might _know what she meant_ was what concerned her.

He began to walk the long way behind the sofas, curving around on the side of the room nearest her bedroom door. He intended it as a way to take the pressure off of her, buy her a bit of time.

What he didn't actually realize was that it gave her a pleasing side view and then obstructed her fastest escape route were she to change her mind about retreating. To leave now would mean either to walk past him or take the long route around the opposite end of the room. With anyone else she'd never slept with and a few she had, she would have felt uncomfortable in this position.

But at the moment, Beckett could only think of the side view.

"Are you done eating?" he asked.

Her forehead wrinkled and her eyelids fluttered a little. She thought, _No, never,_ because by now even she knew she'd been eating him with her eyes. But she said, "What?"

He motioned to the dishware on the table beside them. "Hope you didn't think I left without helping to clean up." His smile said that this time he meant the innuendo, but all in good fun.

 _Wait,_ Beckett thought. _We're going to do this?_

He was going to step this close to her with only one article of clothing on his hips and act like they _weren't_ conducting enough electricity between them to knock Ma Xiangang on his ass?

But wasn't that what she wanted, why she stayed?

_. . . Wasn't it?_

"Well, that's gentlemanly of you," she said, helping him collect the dishware as both of them kept their eyes on their task.

He nodded. "I prefer 'chivalrous.'"

They carried on as though they were playing a sexually frustrated twist of _Chicken,_ neither one willing to be the first to admit that the tension building across the table warranted either parting or release. It made them both feel a little powerful.

She stacked the plates while he gathered the utensils, their hands weaving around one another with surprising coordination and not even an 'accidental' touch.

Then Beckett saw his fingers pause midair and realized he was looking for a missing chopstick. "Oh," she said nonchalantly, remembering its fall; "here." She leaned the stacked plates against her thigh with one hand and reached down with the other for the chopstick on the floor.

As she glanced up, she found Castle picking up his notebook, and something inside her went awry—from what she had read, the guilt of prying, the knowledge that she may have left evidence behind . . . She let out a little yelp just as the plates slipped from her grasp and collided with a wine glass on the table.

Castle's reflex to protect her and prevent catastrophe meant a lurch forward, and they bumped heads, but that was the least of the damage. Still on his feet, utensils in one hand, he'd dropped the book and missed the plates, a wayward shard of glass catching _him_ instead, nicking his left palm.

So much for their coordination.

"Oh _jeez,_ Castle!" she exclaimed, and his pained grimace turned into a look of amusement. It was what she'd said the moment she saw him in his boxers, and it was already catalogued in his treasured Beckett Files.

"Back to that again, are we?" He tried to think if there was a phrasal equivalent to "déjà vu" for something already heard, not seen.

"You're _bleeding."_

"Yes," he said, "I know you've always thought of me as an otherworldly superhero, but it's time you know the truth." He took a breath for dramatic emphasis. "Beckett, I'm human."

She seemed to ignore him, springing into action to grab a clean napkin from the table, not even bothering to relinquish the chopstick before she captured his hand in both of hers and applied the napkin to his small wound. By the time he'd finished speaking, his hand was in hers and they were alternating stealing glances at one another's faces.

He thought of that night—leaping out and taking down Lockwood before Lockwood could take down Kate, the woman who warmed him in the January air; whose sound of arousal he could still taste on his tongue. He'd tackled the gunman to the ground and pummeled him with his fist.

Later, she'd found Castle in the parked ambulance, tenderly adjusted the bandage for him, and thanked him for having her back.

He'd wanted to thank her for letting him have her lips; her breath; her breathlessness. Instead, he promised her, "Always."

Now, Beckett offered a faint smile, suddenly aware of her overreaction to Castle's brush with death by broken glass. "Yeah, you'll be fine. Suck it up, Castle."

The tables were turning: She was keeping her cool, intent on patching him up and atoning both for her invasion of his privacy and causing the calamity that got him hurt. So far he had been the one to make light of their impromptu pajama party, as though to reassure her that they could be as playful as they wanted to be without crossing a line.

But with her so close, holding him, loving him with her fingers, teasing him with her words—it was too much. If he didn't say something, anything, just to fill his mouth with language, he was going to toss his handful of utensils aside, pull her to him, and suck on every inch of her he could reach.

He cleared his throat and said the first thing that came to mind. "I guess now we're even."

She arched a brow and met his gaze directly for the first time since his valiant effort to rescue the plates. "What do you mean?"

"Since the time your apartment exploded," he said, "and I helped you out of your bathtub and—you know, saw you."

"Yeah," she laughed lightly, surprised that the wave of embarrassment she'd felt last year had subsided as much as it had. "Except _you_ aren't naked."

She kept laughing. He did not.

Her face fell. _Seriously?_ It was about as bad as threatening to incapacitate him, only more inviting this time. _Castle, stop letting me say stupid things and leaving them hanging like this!_

As though on cue, he sort of half-shrugged and said, "If it makes you feel any better . . ."


	6. Realized

She didn't have her journal in Los Angeles with her, so she rewrote the ending to their evening in her dreams. It was no different from penning the scene, really, except that in her dreams, "Kate" and "Rick" were most definitely not hiding behind "Nikki" and "Rook."

Castle rewrote the ending, too, and Nikki and Rook weren't in his version, either.

Sitting up in bed, he held his notebook against his lap, glimpsing back at some of his previous writings. There were many scenes that he was fairly sure would appear in _Heat Rises,_ and others that he knew he had written less for work than for leisure.

For Beckett, reading his notebook was like seeing him naked. She had expected to find the fictionalized version of herself in Castle's notes, and she had. But somehow it had never occurred to her how much of _Castle_ she would see there; how much she would feel like she had pried. There was a unique tone to the unpublished pieces she'd found.

Even though the people in these scenes occupied the fictional world of his latest series, Castle knew that they were not exactly his characters. He knew because it was in those entries that he referred to his alter-ego almost exclusively as "Jameson." It was more personal for a reason, one that he tried not to over-think, but recognized nonetheless.

So when he picked up the pen tonight, he thought he would write about Nikki and Jameson, and already that was admitting a lot.

This scene was one that would not happen between them. It was one that had just unfolded, with a shameless fix-it ending.

It seemed he was writing more and more of those lately.

But now, for the first time, he let himself name the people on the page "Kate" and "Rick" and tried not to think too much about that, either.

In Beckett's dream, the action began when Rick teased, "If it makes you feel any better. . . ." because making her _feel better_ was precisely what she wanted him to do.

But for Castle, fix-it Kate and Rick didn't make it that far in the conversation, because she'd said, "Except _you_ aren't naked," and had already decided to rectify that herself.

It was the only incongruity in their alternate endings—that each of them imagined the other one making the first move. A shared wish to be desired and pursued, of course, but also a reflection of each one's real-life inability to initiate something.

After that, the fantasies were one and the same; hers in mind, his in ink. She was his muse, but tonight he was the author of her dreams.

In their boundless imaginations, each of them became steeped in the surreal sensations of mutual pleasure, experiencing everything that the other experienced, as though joined as one.

It didn't matter who took the plunge and stripped off Rick's boxers, because a hot second later their hands were all over each other, sliding over every contour within reach while their tongues tangled together in a dance of desperation. Kate's teasing touch at his erection was feather-light compared to the control she wielded at his mouth, and he groaned into her.

Not to be outdone, he parted her knees with one of his own and palmed her crotch, leaving his fingers unbearably still and resting far too high, his longest tips just grazing her groin. She began to grind down on his thigh, the fabric of her leggings warm and wet against his bare skin. He held his knee in place but urged Kate's torso upward enough to slip his hand lower with the flexibility to work up some friction.

Losing command, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face there, but before she could taste him, his head dove down and his mouth closed around her clothed breast. Awkward position be damned, he worked her up and down until she was gasping for air.

He had her so close and she hadn't lost a single article of clothing—a realization which, naturally, Rick took as a challenge and not just an indication to undress her.

He straightened his spine, releasing his lip-lock on her breast but maintaining steady contact below as he moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He eased her against his leg, picking up his rhythm while brushing his knuckles against her breasts over her shirt.

Kate fingered the hem, aware that he was naked and she was very much _not,_ but he refused to break contact. Just the thought that he was this intent on getting her off made her muscles contract. She breathed, "Are—are you trying to—"

"Just the way you are," he murmured into her shoulder. "Ready or not, here you come."

She could do little more than anchor herself against him. When he tasted the sweat on her neck, her hips bucked, and she had to brace herself with one foot up against the sofa.

She spoke his name as though all other words failed her, until even these letters were too much for her and she was reduced to guttural noises. He could taste her sound again—and this time the hum crescendoed to a moan.

When she could stand upright, she turned in his arms to face him. He leaned in for a kiss, but instead she slid down his body.

It was only a matter of time before eating him with her eyes would not be enough for either of them.

"Kate," he tried, but she swallowed his length and he swallowed his breath.

She brought him to the edge, his hands entwined in her hair until he gathered the willpower to cradle her jaw and ease her back. He stumbled with her into a horizontal heap, kissed a path to her core and breathed through the thin leggings, letting her twitch with arousal.

She arched her hips, and he divested her of pants and panties all at once, dressing her instead with open-mouthed kisses and finally, finally thrusting into her until their collaborative rhythm overtook their melded bodies.

 _Wishful writing._ What Castle wouldn't give for his version of this scenario to have been the reality.

Tomorrow, he will notice that Beckett doesn't smell like cherries. She will smell like the lotions provided by the hotel, and he will notice that they share the fragrance the way he imagined them sharing the scent of sex. He will wonder if it is enough.

But then he will smile in spite of himself, because there was something about the way the night turned out that Castle could not deny was so quintessentially . . . _them._

Playful, rhythmic, exciting, but not opportunistic. It was a long time since he'd had a relationship that was not simply opportunistic or convenient, built on a foundation of trust and promise.

Despite his desires and disappointments, he caught a glimpse of something good in their reality; a hope that if they ever did finally get it together, they might do it right, not starting out on lies and stolen time.

He couldn't know her thoughts or her wishes. He couldn't know what she felt for Josh or for him these days.

But Castle knew that she was still willing to dance with him, and no matter how difficult it was to imagine that he might live the rest of his life in her presence without being able to reach out and touch her, right now he also couldn't fathom dancing alone.

He had made the mistake of leaving before. This time he would stay.

As for Nikki Heat, he would continue to write her, fictionalize her, stretch her and develop her, always with his muse in mind. But Richard Castle was done with rewriting the endings of the story he lived in the way he did tonight. If ever he was going to try to rewrite it, it was _not_ going to be on paper.

After all, if he wanted to live in his head or in his books, he would be spending more time at his desk and less time on the streets and at the precinct. But he kept coming back. The Kate he knew—even the Kate he longed for—was always somehow better than anything he could conjure up.

With that, he tore several pages from his notebook.

In her own bedroom, Beckett woke to realize—not entirely surprised—how dramatically her dream had altered what really happened between them that night.

"If it makes you feel any better. . . ."

She had wondered whether he was going to take his boxers off, as though hearing what she'd said as a dare. Then she'd remembered his smug tease, once upon an interrogation, back when his teasing drove her a different kind of crazy: ". . . I'd be happy to let you spank me."Involuntarily, she'd tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.

He'd pressed on in another direction, making no move on her—or his boxers. ". . . I only saw you from behind. You were almost as covered up as the girl on the sunscreen bottle."

"The one with the cocker spaniel pulling her swimsuit? Thanks, Castle. Not creepy at all."

Soon they'd found their playful rhythm again, together this time, and everything fell into place. They were at their best when both of them were working in tandem, neither one drawing back or pushing too hard. It was no small feat, and without a word about it, they relished the moment of synchronicity.

Tomorrow, Beckett will find herself slipping, revealing too much to herself and to him in thoughts and actions and words.

She will wake early, and when Castle surfaces, she will wonder to herself not why he isn't dressed yet, but why he is wearing a shirt and a robe with his boxers this time.

Later, she will jump a little too quickly at the opportunity to wear a swimsuit to try to ensnare Ganz, all the while allowing her glistening strut to have an effect on her partner.

She will accidentally tell him that she wants to kiss him when it would suffice to say that his latest collection of evidence is helpful, and she will not even acknowledge the Freudian slip with an excuse or a correction.

He will ask her how close she came, and she will silently contemplate how close she was to making love with him in that hotel. He will clarify, unasked, that he wants to know how close she came to killing Ganz, and she will not answer him.

She will simply exhale her every concern that she could kill off-duty and out of pure vengeance, and every concern that she could cheat and betray someone who holds her heart—even if it turns out that he's only borrowing it.

She will know what it is to trust herself again.

He will fall asleep on the flight back to New York, and she will look at his resting figure, remembering how naked his flesh was in that lone article of clothing, how naked his soul was in the words in that notebook. She will look at him with the words of Royce's last letter to her echoing in her mind: "risking our hearts," and "if only," and "something real."

She will look at him and see future risk and past regret and also something real, right now.

She will know that she will break up with her perfectly fine boyfriend. She will want to do it in person and preferably when the world isn't quite so dark and unstable; sometime soon, when she is not reeling from this grief; when Josh won't be able to argue that she's _just going through something,_ that of course he will wait for her to go through it and be there for her in the end.

She will realize that the only man she _hopes_ would wait for her is also the one who would choose to wait at her side—at times hanging back when she needs to travel alone, but always, _always,_ returning to journey with her again, even through the thick of it.

She will know that the heart wants what the heart wants, and if she listens to it, hers will want the man who appreciates the messy middle of a story as much as the resolution.

But tonight she didn't know this.

Tonight she knew her dreams: what it was to imagine the feel of him in her arms, the taste of him on her tongue, the surreal sensation of _his_ pleasure combined with hers; what it was for such an impossibly fantastic dream to be so _palpable,_ as though not even a dream but a glimpse into a reality not yet known.

And she knew that neither she nor Castle was everything she once thought they were. She was beginning to learn that each of them—both of them—were so much more than she'd ever realized.


End file.
